Guess whom I spied with my little eye, after a hiatus of—perhaps a year or more—our friend Susan, aka Mrs G Bridie. And where did I see her? Rifling through her handbag, looking for her cheque-book—in the process of purchasing two ‘lovely’ drawings by Florence Oakey.

Florence is the first woman artist WOP has shown and this has caused plenty of friction. Especially because the red dots kept coming and coming. (They indicate a sale, you see.) Gosh, didn’t I just nurse my wine glass (full of soda water) and cackle.

Jo’s thoughts on Florence Oakey were all positive in the extreme, and he was sure Parish would feel the same once the monies had been counted. But Parish was in a funk—at being proven wrong is my guess—he was not a fan of the artist in question. Gallery assistant had to work extremely hard to jolly him back into sorts.

An all-round cracker of a night.

Susan has invited me to attend a group she has formed, lady patrons of the arts, something like that, but I’m not going to. I would only make some terrible class boo-boo and be sent home with my tail between my legs. Or find myself wearing the wrong dress or coat. You wouldn’t feel equal to it either, I’m sure, though I imagine you think me silly for turning Susan down. I haven’t much else to do, I know. I have a sort of mental paralysis, though, just thinking about such things: spending an afternoon talking, eating, talking, eating with a group of women I don’t even really know … I no longer feel capable of such feats. Yes, it would seem like a feat.

And I have neither the money nor the inclination for philanthropy.

Jo sends love. Owen sends thanks for Hot Wheels, belatedly I’m afraid. His note is within.

And no, I’m not thinking about having another baby. Are you joking? What sort of a mother have I been so far?

And no, no response from Hannah.

Love always,

Veda xxx

† † †

17 JUNE 1969

Dearest Tilde,

You won’t believe the latest development: Owen has become a vegetarian!

I’m not joking, Tilde. He has sworn off meat in any form.

Jo is rabid with anger. He considers it a personal insult. I’m afraid I provide very little support. When Jo asked me to help him convince Owen to change his mind, I said: ‘Let him eat beans!’ at which my husband fumed.

What made O-yo come to such a decision, you ask? Well, to be honest, I think it was all due to my serving a particularly fatty old steak. (I don’t often cook steak anymore, and so perhaps I was not paying enough attention and served it a bit underdone.) We were just sitting there, at the table, he and I, and Owen was prodding away at his steak, pressing the fork against it to see the blood squeeze out, and he said to me: ‘Mother, is this from a cow?’